Second Glances
by Leraiv Snape
Summary: Stand-alone sequel to 'First Impressions'. Character reactions from family, landladies, colleagues and enemies to the deepening friendship between John and Sherlock. Set from the middle of 'A Study in Pink' to just before 'The Great Game.' Friendship, but with a deep rose slant. Pre-slash.
1. John

Disclaimer: Not mine. All respects paid to Sir Doyle, the BBC, and writers Steve Moffat and Mark Gatiss.

A/N: This fic is a stand-alone sequel to "First Impressions" and takes place during the first season, between the middle of "A Study in Pink" and the beginning of "The Great Game". Despite the beginning two chapters, there is much more original material in this piece than the first one. Clearly, any dialogue you recognize is from the series.

Second Glances

John

Human.

They hit the front of the cab, Sherlock nearly rolling off it. "Police! Open up!" He yanked the door open and John found himself looking into—

—the completely bewildered face of a man with a dark complexion and confused brow. "No." Sherlock was already shaking his head, disappointment evident. "Teeth, tan, what – Californian?" Sherlock glanced down, and must have seen something to give him a clue. "L.A, Santa Monica. Just arrived."

"How can you possibly know that?" John wheezed breathlessly behind him, trying to keep himself upright instead of doubled over. He hadn't run like that in…far too long.

"The luggage," Sherlock answered brusquely, clearly piqued at not having bagged their quarry. Leaning around him, John could, indeed, see the large bag and make out the LAX / LHR routing tag.

"Probably your first trip to London, right? Going by your final destination and the route the cabbie was taking you."

"Sorry…are you guys the police?" Definitely an American. And he just as obviously doubted them. So would John – plain-clothes coppers were doubtless a great deal suaver than this.

"Yeah." Sherlock flashed an ID of some kind, up and gone so quickly it could have been anything. John fought the urge to grin massively. No wonder Sherlock was used to getting his way – he rolled over people with such supreme confidence they didn't stand a chance of objecting. He hitched a friendly expression onto his face. "Everything all right?"

The American's face was a study in incredulity as he replied, "Yeah."

"Welcome to London," the consulting detective answered blithely, seemingly completely unaware of how _weird_ that sounded given that Sherlock had jumped in front of his cab in a great hurry for what now seemed like no particular reason whatsoever.

And then he was off, not even closing the door. John rolled his eyes. _"I worry about him. Constantly,"_ the arch-enemy had said this afternoon. The doctor seriously doubted that the cold man posturing with an umbrella had been thinking of the small things in life – such as shutting the cab door after impersonating a cop and finding out he'd nabbed the wrong man – but John had the feeling that Sherlock missed much of the fine print in human social interaction.

He had the unshakable feeling that he was going to be regularly haring off after the man, and he'd better get used to smoothing that over.

"Any problems, just let us know," he added in what he hoped passed for a calm, official voice. He shut the door firmly and started after his friend.

So…Sherlock Holmes, brilliant though he was, was capable of making mistakes.

"Basically just a cab that happened to slow down," he said, drawing level with Sherlock some twenty meters on.

"Basically." And capable of admitting them. John felt a flare of relief at discovering this that he didn't trouble himself to feel guilty about. He had a strong hunch that Sherlock was seldom wrong, and as a consequence would have the hatred all true genius' possessed of being outmaneuvered.

"Not the murderer."

"Not the murderer, no," the taller man replied irritably.

"Wrong country, good alibi." John hoped he sounded intelligent, instead of just completely winded, which he still was.

"As they go." At least Sherlock was breathing hard, too.

The wallet the detective had flashed at the American was still in his hand. Without thinking, John reached for it. "Hey, where did you get this?" His chilly fingers wrapped around Sherlock's warm ones as the consulting detective surrendered it, penetrating eyes still scanning the street for something they'd missed. John flipped it open. "Detective Inspector Lestrade?"

"Yeah. I pickpocket him when he's annoying. You can keep that one, I've got plenty at the flat."

" _I've got plenty at the flat."_ As if they were trophies. As if it weren't illegal to steal someone else's identification, much less a copper's. John started to laugh. "What?"

He shook his head. _"You're an army doctor. Any good?" "He's with_ _ **me**_ _." "You were right. The police don't consult amateurs."_ There was entirely too much going on his brain to explain it at all coherently. He pulled out the first explanation that presented itself. "Nothing, just… 'Welcome to London'."

At that, his flat mate grinned too, and, though he had seen Sherlock ecstatic about being invited to the crime scene, this was the quieter smile of some shared amusement. It seemed to be another small plank laid on the bridge they'd begun building during the cab ride where the younger man had dissected his life.

A real policeman had approached the cab, and the American was out, clearly pointing at them. "Got your breath back?" Sherlock asked, the same spark of mischief that had danced in his eyes with _"Wanna see some more?"_

John wasn't quite ready to admit it to himself yet, but he would follow that kind of look anywhere. "Ready when you are."

888

The door slammed behind them. Between Sherlock's intimate knowledge of London and John's willingness to follow him over rooftops – and how many years had it been since he'd jumped from gutter to ledge to fire escape? – they had easily outstripped the police, who hadn't gotten a solid look at them.

And what would have happened if they had? How much trouble would the detective who solved all the baffling cases be in for such a stunt?

"Okay, that was ridiculous," John gasped, leaning against the wall. "That was the most ridiculous thing I've done…in a long time."

"And you invaded Afghanistan," Sherlock quipped beside him, equally out of breath and grinning. Unable to help himself, John started to giggle.

A baritone laugh joined him, and he glanced at Sherlock, startled. John was glad that his laughter covered his (pleased) surprise. Sherlock could laugh. This strange, brilliant, serious, flat mate of his could genuinely laugh. At nothing.

"That wasn't just me," John replied, still laughing. "Why aren't we back at the restaurant?"

"They can keep an eye out," Sherlock waved it off, pulling deep breaths to regain equilibrium. "It was a long shot anyway."

"So what were we doing there?"

"Just passing the time." Sherlock glanced at him sidelong. "And proving a point."

"What point?"

"You. Mrs. Hudson! Dr. Watson will take the room upstairs!" he called into 221A.

The room upstairs? Up two flights? No…no, not with his leg. What could the other man be thinking? "Says who?"

Sherlock tilted his chin. "Says the man at the door." A knock instantly followed on his words, and there was that smile again – not the eager, challenging one for Lestrade's cases – but the smile from the cab _"What do they usually say?" "Piss off."_ The smile that invited him to share.

He opened the door and there stood Angelo. "Sherlock texted me. He said you forgot this."

In his hands was John's cane. The cane he'd gone _nowhere_ without since awakening in the makeshift hospital in Kabul. The only thing he'd ever owned aside from his medical kit that felt as much a part of him as his own limbs.

The cane he'd left behind in a heart beat, without a second glance, a thought, or a twinge in his leg, as he had hurtled across London after the man behind him, climbed narrow staircases and leapt from rooftops to drainpipes to ladders.

 _At least partly psychosomatic._

Had Angelo not returned it, how long would he have gone without it before he'd noticed?

"Uh…" He twisted, and there was Sherlock, still inside the door, and that sharing smile was still there. It wasn't as gloating as an _I told you so._ It was more like a _See?_ John's hand closed around the cane. "Thank you. Thank you." He was facing Angelo, but the words were for both.

For all his furious-paced, astonishing intellect, Sherlock was human. He laughed, he made mistakes, he shared John's love – _addiction –_ to the adrenaline rush…and he cared.

Why he had decided to care about John, the doctor wasn't sure he would ever know. But he _did_. And that was good enough.

888

As always, please review and let me know what you think!


	2. Sherlock

Disclaimer: Not mine. All respects paid to Sir Doyle, the BBC, and writers Steve Moffat and Mark Gatiss.

A/N: Many thanks to those are are leaving feedback for both this and 'First Impressions'. I appreciate all the thoughts and reflections I have received.

Sherlock

Friend.

"So the shooter, no sign?"

"Cleared off before we got here. But a guy like that would have had enemies, I suppose, one of them could have been following him. But…" Lestrade sighed, heaving his shoulders in a shrug, "got nothing to go on."

Sherlock shot him an incredulous look. Was the man _blind_? There was a plethora of information tucked within the crime itself. He could feel his brain shift, from sorting through the cabbie's last, baffling confession: _"Moriarty!"_ to solving this small puzzle. "Oh, I wouldn't say that."

Lestrade's lined face radiated exasperation as he made to sit down next to Sherlock on the back of the ambulance. "Okaaay. Gimme."

Sherlock rose, and the D.I. changed angle to walk with him instead. "The bullet you just dug out of the wall is from a handgun. Kill shot over that kind of a distance from that kind of a weapon – it's a crack shot you're looking for, but not just a marksman. Fighter. His hands couldn't have shaken at all, so clearly he's acclimatized to violence. He didn't fire until I was in immediate danger, though, so strong moral principle. You're looking for a man probably with a history of military service and…" just across the police line, his eyes caught on John Watson, hands clasped behind his back in a typical soldier's stance.

As if he could feel Sherlock's gaze, John turned to look directly at him, honest face radiating a quiet, bystander's confusion. A little too well. _Crack shot. History of military service._

"…nerves of steel…" Sherlock's mouth was still running. But he _knew_.

He quirked an eyebrow at the doctor, and John glanced away, finding some detail about the building's façade that fascinated him.

"Actually, do you know what," he turned back to Lestrade abruptly, hoping the D.I. displayed his usual thickness and didn't pursue the consulting detective's wholly out-of-character about-face, "ignore me."

"Sorry?"

"Ignore all of that. It's just the, uh…" he hated to give credence to any of their moronic theories, but this time their ignorance would serve him well, "the shock talking."

He was already walking away. "Where are you going?" Lestrade called.

"I just…" _Need to ask John why he would do such a thing. For a man he's just met, for_ me _, why would he_ kill _someone to save me from myself…_ "…need to talk about the…the rent."

"I've still got questions for you!"

"Oh, what now?" he spun in exasperation, his own questions for John whirling in his brain. He didn't have _time_ for Lestrade's boring and oh-so-predictable queries. "I'm in shock – look, I've got a blanket!" He shook it at the officer.

"Sherlock!"

"And…I just caught you a serial killer." Lestrade raised his eyebrows. He wasn't _that_ thick. 'Caught' was a strong term for Sherlock's endgame tonight. "More or less," the consulting detective begrudgingly admitted.

The D.I. heaved another sigh, clearly realizing that he wasn't going to win tonight. "Okaaay. We'll pull you in tomorrow. Off you go."

Sherlock ducked under the police tape, disposing of the shock blanket in a handy panda car.

John seemed surprised that he'd come directly over, but stepped up as Sherlock crossed the barrier. "Um…" he cleared his throat, glanced down the row, clearly looking for a logical way to explain his presence. "Sergeant Donovan has just been explaining everything. Two pills. It's a dreadful business, isn't it? Dreadful." Those blue eyes stared up into his guilelessly.

All the questions seemed to have disappeared from his tongue, if not his brain. Sherlock couldn't get a single one of them out. "Good shot," he managed.

A flicker of surprise, swiftly covered. John would definitely be able to fool Lestrade – if the D.I. even thought of coming after him in the first place. "Yes, yes, must have been," the doctor recovered with aplomb, "through that window."

 _Don't cover up for me, John_ , Sherlock thought with amusement, gazing down at the smaller man. _You won't succeed._ "Well, you'd know."

The ex-army man's response to this was to go still, navy eyes meeting Sherlock's steady grey, measuring him. The detective could see the knowledge that John wasn't going to fool him take shape in the doctor's eyes, saw him bow to the inevitable. "Did you get the powder burns out of your fingers? I don't suppose you'd serve time for this, but let's avoid the court case."

It was only after he'd spoken that he realized what he'd said. _"Let's."_ Let us. Us. In the past twenty-four hours, not only had Dr. John Watson joined him in his flat, he'd joined Sherlock in his life.

Sherlock hadn't been part of an 'us' since Mycroft had left for secondary school as a boy.

Suddenly, the question of why John had willingly shot another, albeit a serial killer, to save him was irrelevant. It was doubtless classified in the military man's head under _things you do for a friend._

It was part of being an 'us'.

888

As always, please review and let me know what you think!


	3. Lestrade

Disclaimer: Not mine. All respects paid to Sir Doyle, the BBC, and writers Steve Moffat and Mark Gatiss.

A/N: Many thanks to those are are leaving feedback for both this and 'First Impressions'. I appreciate all the thoughts and reflections I have received. I apologize too, for the lateness of this chapter...it was supposed to go up Monday, but RL intervened.

The following is a total departure from the scenes of the television show. It's Lestrade's snapshots of a single case Sherlock and John work with the Yard. This takes place sometime after 'The Blind Banker', but before 'The Great Game.' Enjoy!

Lestrade

Trust.

"Will you come?"

They had always played this game. At first, Lestrade had found it confusing and, frankly, irritating. Sherlock _lived_ for crime scenes. The cool detachment, the need to even ask the question _'Will you come?'_ (Lestrade wouldn't _be_ here if he weren't in dire straights), the disdainful dismissal of riding in one of the Yard's cars, the groans from the rest of the unit when knew the detective was coming – why go through this? Everyone knew from the instant Sherlock heard the sirens in the street below that he would be joining them.

Now, however, the irritation was gone – along with most of the confusion. Donovan and Anderson's sneered " _Freak,"_ was the strongest consistent reaction, but the D.I. knew that most of his force found Sherlock a high-handed, arrogant prick. Lestrade, Dimmock and a handful of others were the few who valued his brains enough to deal with his personality. And of them, Lestrade had to admit that he was the only one who felt anything like friendship or affection for the young genius.

In scouring Sherlock for likable qualities, the detective inspector had discovered something he hadn't expected. Like any burgeoning primary schooler, Sherlock _needed_ signs of approval, indications that he was useful.

Sherlock would bristle and shut down if Lestrade ever offered it directly. So he continued to ask the question.

This time, though, Sherlock changed the rules.

"John?" The detective's gaze went to the older man, one hand on the black coat that had been slung carelessly over the back of a chair. His body betrayed him – he was ready to dash after Lestrade – but he was waiting for his…assistant?

No…that title didn't suit John Watson.

And Sherlock would never wait for a mere assistant, anyway. Before John Watson entered his life, the copper had never seen him wait for anyone.

John sighed, set down the newspaper he hadn't been reading as it was, turned his wrist to check the time, twisted his mouth in thought, and nodded once, decisively. "I can call in sick."

"Excellent." The detective turned back to Lestrade, swinging his long coat over his shoulders. "We'll be right behind you."

The D.I. glanced at John, who had a faint smile on his face as he hit the SEND button on his mobile to makes his excuses, and shook his head in wonderment.

The two men had come together on every scene since the cabbie-serial-killer incident. Watson was remarkable at smoothing Sherlock's diamond-sharp edges and soothing ruffled feathers in the wake of the detective's passing. A fact for which Lestrade was grateful. And clearly, John didn't mind if it interrupted his normal work.

Then again…there was a _lot_ more to John Watson than the quiet doctor of his first acquaintance, Lestrade reflected as he jogged back down the stairs to his car. Sherlock might think Lestrade hopelessly thick, but it hadn't been much of a leap when he'd seen Sherlock duck across the police tape line to talk to his new flat mate just after the cabbie's death. _"Ignore all of that. It's just the, uh…the shock talking."_

No…it had been the truth. John Watson was the marksman Sherlock had done such an admirable job of describing. Lestrade had quietly tucked that knowledge to the back of his brain and left it there, happily tossing the file on the cabbie's mysterious killer into the Cold Case cabinet, never to be re-opened.

"Freak's coming then?" Sally Donovan asked drily as he slid into his seat. He shot her a stiff glare.

" _Sherlock_ and John are coming." His tone left no room for objections as the car lurched into traffic towards the crime scene.

888

They burst through the access door onto the roof, only to find it singularly devoid of one Sherlock Holmes. John's blue eyes widened in panic as he scanned the place with the rapidness of a professional soldier and failed to find what he was looking for.

"Sherlock!"

"It's all right, John." The voice came from below them, and John hit the rooftop so fast that if he'd blinked, Lestrade would have missed it. The smaller man was lying flat on his stomach, arm outstretched as far as he could reach. His flat mate was under the gutter, hanging from the thick bundle of cable and electrical wires running just under the overhang.

Long, pale fingers grabbed John's as Lestrade threw himself down beside the doctor, adding his strength, the doctor wincing as he started to pull, wriggling backwards to allow Sherlock to grab the gutter, levering himself onto the concrete roof before the weak metal gave way.

"Thank you," Sherlock breathed, crouching next to them.

"For God's sake, be careful!" John snapped, turning the younger man's hands over, running his fingers over them in a light, proficient manner, checking for injury amongst the deep impressions and grease smears the cables had left on Sherlock's skin. "There had to be a better way to get a look—"

Sherlock waved him off. "No time…and the rooftop lookout was the best way to see what was happening."

"Roof _top_ , Sherlock," John said sharply. "That means _on_ the roof. Not dangling _under_ it."

"Too obvious!" Sherlock replied impatiently, the slate-colored eyes desperate for John's understanding. Lestrade watched silently. He'd never seen Sherlock take a scolding. From anyone. On any subject. But John Watson didn't appear to know or care about this previous track record as he glowered at his flat mate. "And ground surveillance is too clumsy," Sherlock elucidated, glancing dismissively at the copper. "He's clever. They would have seen."

The D.I. rolled his eyes and reminded himself not to throttle the other man. "So? What did _you_ see?"

"I was right. They _are_ supplying ice."

"Which means he's probably the murderer," Lestrade followed with some satisfaction.

"No. He just hired them." Sherlock rose, strode towards the still-cocked door that had granted them access to the roof, calling back over his shoulder. "John, we need to get to the hospital."

A flick of his black coat and he was through the door, thundering down the stairs.

Lestrade glanced at the physician as he stood. "You all right?" he asked.

John gave him a grimace and shook his head. "I wish he wouldn't be such an idiot, but yeah. I'm not sure what he's thinking about the hospital, but I'd better go with him."

"If only to ensure no one else tries to kill him," the copper said wryly.

"Exactly."

888

Lestrade jogged down the hallway at Bart's, flipping his wrist up. 1:45. Looked like lunch was off the schedule. _Again._ At least a visit to the morgue was likely to quiet his rumbling stomach. He might be a detective, but he had never grown accustomed to the gruesomeness of the dead that the Yard were typically called to investigate.

"…going to end up in the 'fridge this time?" he heard John Watson's voice. It was comprised of equal parts exasperation, admiration and resignation.

"Of course, John. The state of her liver is most important. That and her blood should tell us exactly when she had her last dose – ah, Detective Inspector." Sherlock looked up from where he was capping a small blood sample.

"Sherlock. Molly," Lestrade nodded to the mortician hovering in the corner, shelving his automatic pang of pity. Anyone who'd been in the same room as Molly Hooper for two minutes knew of her yearning for Sherlock Holmes. The army doctor's entrance into Sherlock's life had sealed her fate – John Watson was, for some unfathomable reason, the only one allowed to be close to the enigmatic man. While Molly made the short list of people Sherlock vaguely cared about, her connection to the morgue and therefore all the bodies was undeniably her most important feature in his world.

Lestrade felt he could relate. Despite being the man who'd picked an addicted and overdosing Sherlock up out of the gutter five years prior, his importance to the detective was largely limited to the fact that he held the power to invite or ban him from crime scenes.

However, unlike Molly, he did not have the misfortune the fancy himself in love with the man.

"Afternoon, John. Did you say 'in the 'fridge?'" he asked the doctor.

John sighed. "Sherlock labors under the delusion that the 'fridge is for body parts. And bacteria. And experiments."

"I keep everything off the 'Food Only' shelf," the detective replied indignantly, not lifting his gaze from the corpse he was examining.

"Sherlock…the whole refrigerator is designed for 'Food Only' _._ Mold _travels_. It has spores – never mind," he shook his head, hopped off the stool he'd been occupying, and turned to Lestrade. Despite the display, the D.I. suspected that John had long since grown used to Sherlock's complete failure to understand appropriate domestic behavior, and offered a token protest only because it was somehow expected as the 'normal' thing to do. He extended a hand, which the D.I. took. "Greg. I didn't know you were joining us."

Lestrade waved his mobile phone vaguely at Sherlock. "He texted. Said it was important."

"Hmm?" Sherlock looked momentarily blank at this, and Lestrade gritted his teeth, counting slowly to ten. If he'd missed lunch yet another time for nothing more than the detective's whims—

"Ah, yes. Come take a look at the body's left hand." Lestrade allowed himself a moment of relief that his rush to answer Sherlock's summons was not in vain, then dutifully strode to the table, avoiding the deceased's face, and looking very carefully only at the broken nails and rough chilblains on her hand. "Here, and here," Sherlock didn't quite touch, but his blue gloves hovered over massive bruising. "Actually…" now his nose was level with her left thumb, and he lifted her hand delicately, running the fingers of his other hands under her wrist.

"John!"

The doctor was at his side instantly, kneeling to join him. "Hemorrhaging," John agreed, peering at the damage. "This woman was bound."

"For awhile, judging by the state of her hands," Sherlock added. "Perhaps two to three days. We'll need to look through her phone, emails, see what evidence we can find to corroborate."

"And she obviously fought," John indicated her split and uneven nails, the ragged edges where some had been torn away.

"Phone. I need to send a text."

Lestrade stared as John didn't rise, didn't ask _"Where is it?"_ but placed a hand flat on Sherlock's chest and slid downwards, as if patting him down. Sherlock waited patiently through this exercise, apparently still completely focused on the corpse. A faint quirk on the doctor's lips told the D.I. that he'd found the desired object, and then he thrust his hand into the front of Sherlock's jacket pocket, withdrawing the mobile.

Neither man seemed to find the casual, intimate invasion of space odd as John rocked back on his heels, fingers slowly typing the message Sherlock dictated.

Lestrade glanced to Molly, who returned his gaze with longing and envy – but not with surprise.

888

The cars pulled up as Sherlock was running, his long strides eating the ground as he dashed towards the back of the apparently normal brick residence. Lestrade could see where he was going. He didn't even try to catch up, let alone stop him. _Nothing_ stopped Sherlock.

Except possibly the kidnapped man inside. Lestrade's gut iced at the thought of what would occur if Sherlock arrived and John Watson was no longer breathing.

"Secure the exits," he ordered his squad. "Sherlock will go in from the rear." He turned to Herrick with a sigh. "See if you can get to a second story window. Try not to let him get killed – or kill John with his foolishness."

Herrick nodded seriously.

Lestrade eased himself over to the front door. It was late afternoon, and they were approaching a nominally average house. He hoped that meant the likelihood of getting shot upon ringing the doorbell was lessened.

He rang. There was no answer. He rang again.

After the third ring, he sighed, took out a useful little kit that he wasn't entirely sure that even Sherlock knew he owned, and picked the lock.

Technically, owning and using lock-picks was illegal. But Lestrade had always felt that citizens, taxpayers and neighbors appreciated _not_ having doors broken in.

The first floor looked and sounded deserted. He could have gone searching through every room, but as a copper he'd developed a sixth sense for people. People made…noise. Messes. The ground floor looked staged. Mildly lived in – but only in the way one would occupy a hotel.

Up, then. Or down. He listened, not moving off the front mat.

After ten seconds of hearing nothing but his own breathing, he went in search of the basement stairs.

He carefully descended, noiselessly as possible, gun in hand…into a scene of complete carnage.

There were minimally three thugs in the room, and at least one of them was dead. A human neck just wasn't _meant_ to bend at that angle. The other two had suffered serious accidents with various items of furniture. One was unconscious, the other curled on the ground, eyes wide with terror and wishing he had also been blessed with oblivion.

In the middle of the room, John Watson was tied to a pole, blood running down one side of his face. Not two feet away stood Sherlock, a young boy's (eleven? twelve? Lestrade wondered, feeling his stomach turn) face in his hands, forcefully captured upwards to meet the consulting detective's terrifying ice-grey stare.

The boy was struggling not to burst into tears, shock shaking through his limbs, lips chattering with the numbness born of terror. John Watson's voice cut across the scene, low and soothing.

"Sherlock, he didn't know. He's a homeless kid who runs errands for them in exchange for some cash and a place to sleep at night. He had no way of knowing their plans."

"If they had killed you, would that make him less an accomplice?" Sherlock demanded of John roughly, not looking away from the youth, who blanched at the word 'killed'.

"Sherlock…I'm fine," John continued in that same voice, firm and gentle. "The kid didn't mean any harm. He thought…they told you I was a customer, didn't they?"

The boy nodded once, still shaking into Sherlock's grip, grimy blond curls bouncing.

"I'm _all right_ , Sherlock." John laughed. It was faint, and weak, but real. "Greg's probably going to have my head now for rushing into a situation unprepared."

"There's no denying you'd deserve it," Lestrade said sharply, announcing his presence and stepping off the last stair, stowing his weapon. " _Why_ did you come here without back up?" he asked John. Then he took a slow look around at the wrecked basement and addressed Sherlock, "What happened?"

The detective's question broke Sherlock's deadlock with the boy and he glanced sparingly at the destruction he had no doubt been responsible for and shrugged, stepping away from the youth to duck behind John, a wicked knife making an appearance to cut the smaller man's bonds.

"I don't know. They seem to have had a bit of a struggle sitting down at the table together."

Lestrade heaved an exasperated sigh. "There's no possible way for me to make _that_ story stick, Sherlock."

The dark-haired detective was supremely unconcerned as he finished with the ropes and started massaging John's wrists, encouraging blood flow.

The copper's gaze was momentarily transfixed by the sight of those long, pale fingers steadily kneading the older man's tanned hands, pressure placed on each knuckle of each digit to bring back motion. After a few seconds, John noticed Lestrade's attention, and snatched his hands from Sherlock's, a blush spreading up his neck as he rubbed them himself.

Sherlock favored him with a quizzical look, then turned unworriedly back to Lestrade, who had averted his gaze guiltily as soon as John noticed him. "I'm sure your forensics team will come up with a suitable explanation," Sherlock said dismissively. John's eyes had drifted to the boy, standing as if frozen, uncertain as to whether he was allowed to breathe.

The D.I. took pity on the kid. It looked like he had mixed himself in with the wrong people, but if he was just an errand runner, something could be worked out that wouldn't involve a juvenile facility.

"You've scared him half to death," Lestrade chided Sherlock gently, stepping up to the boy. He wanted to box the detective's ears, but he needed to get the kid down to the station. He placed a hand on his thin, shaking shoulder. "Come with me."

There was no resistance when the D.I. gently turned him around and guided him towards the stairs.

"Don't touch anything, Sherlock!" Lestrade called over his shoulder. He heard a tenor chuckle and a baritone scoff behind him.

"As if I would contaminate a crime scene," he heard Sherlock's low protest, only to be interrupted by John's laughing rebuttal:

"No, you'd just steal the fingers. Or a kidney—"

"Only if it was vital evidence, John—"

The door closed on their friendly banter and Lestrade led the kid to his car, hoping he could get Sherlock out of the way before Anderson insisted on arriving.

888

Both men were laughing as they entered the station. Lestrade paused at his desk, fingers stilling over the paperwork he'd been signing.

Sherlock looked… _normal_ , his usually intense face cracked by his open smile, the glitter in his eyes that of amusement instead of his insane love of the game.

As for John, his honest face gave him away under all circumstances, and now it was relaxed, at ease, content with his place in the world at this man's side as they chuckled over some private mirth.

Even their laughter merged, the bright tenor and the deeper baritone weaving together in blended harmony.

Aware of his scrutiny (and the eyes of half the rest of Scotland Yard), the two made a visible effort to compose themselves, John clapping one hand on Sherlock's shoulder to steer him towards Lestrade's office, both of them clearing their throats and schooling their expressions.

The D.I. saw Sally Donovan's surprised and frankly appraising glance _"You know they've got to be going at it, Greg. Why_ else _would Watson hang around with him?"_ , watched Sherlock's warm gaze cool as it fell on her, observed John's blue eyes follow his friend's, and the frown that crossed his features as he met her dark, challenging stare.

Lestrade stepped out of his office, drawing their attention and subconsciously reinforcing 'good' behavior. A confrontation between these two at the Yard would serve none.

"Sherlock. John."

"Did you sort out the kid? Drew, right?" John asked immediately, all lingering traces of mirth fading from his gaze.

Lestrade sighed. "Sort of. Orphan, but we've talked to foster care places and found an aunt out in Brighton. I'll keep an eye out for him, see what happens."

"If you could let me know…when a decision gets made…" John trailed off.

"Of course." Sherlock cleared his throat, _my turn!_ , etched into every nuance of his stance. The detective inspector obliged. "What have you got for me?"

"Solved," Sherlock said bluntly. "The victim's mother was in St. Bart's recovering from surgery for stage-two lung cancer. So he was running part of the operation out of her basement —"

"—which Sherlock told her very tactfully," John jumped in. The corner of his mouth twitched upwards again, and Lestrade shot him a serious look, trying to control both his instinct to grin and the desire to cover his face with his hands. He could imagine the scene all too well.

"Honestly, John, why should I have said it any differently?" Sherlock said, flapping his long arms with his typical, dismissive impatience. "It would hardly have changed the truth."

John ducked his face to hide his smile, and the D.I. bit his lip to control his as Sherlock (oblivious to both of them), laid out his conclusions in his customary style.

The Yarder returned his full attention to the consulting detective, but not before he caught the proud, affectionate look John turned on a Sherlock now in full-flow. It was a glance Lestrade had witnessed between partners on the homicide squad, between soldiers of the same platoon.

John Watson didn't consider Sherlock just his friend, he trusted him his comrade-in-arms.

Lestrade doubted there was a higher honor the former captain could grant another. And, remembering that dismantled room, Sherlock's intensity as he had interrogated the youth responsible for taking _his_ doctor, he thought that, just perhaps, Sherlock Holmes was the man to deserve such an honor.

888

As always, please review and let me know what you think!


	4. Mrs Hudson

Disclaimer: Not mine. All respects paid to Sir Doyle, the BBC, and writers Steve Moffat and Mark Gatiss.

A/N: Like the previous chapter, the following is original work and does not appear in any episode of _Sherlock_. Please enjoy.

Mrs. Hudson

Important.

 _Sherlock_

Feet pounded down the stairs and the front door closed, hard.

Ignoring her hip – it was always so irritating when it flared – she mounted the stairs to 221B, wondering which of her boys had stormed out this time.

She smiled to herself indulgently as she reached the door. It had been the same with Mr. Hudson – passion and fire and fights that were the end of the world. It wasn't everyone's cup of tea, but she couldn't imagine Sherlock doing it any other way. There was simply too much behind those grey eyes for a quiet, domestic relationship.

John Watson, however, was just the man to weather this storm. She knew that with the same absolute certainty that she knew her hip always hurt worse right before a rain.

Although, he'd held out on that second bedroom a lot longer than she'd ever dreamed he would when she'd first met him.

One of the objects of her thoughts was curled on himself, dressing robe wrapped around him as he faced the back of the couch, his whole being radiating _leave me alone_.

Martha Hudson hadn't become landlady (and part-time housekeeper because, God love them, who could trust a couple of men to actually take care of themselves properly?) to these two without learning to judiciously ignore certain moods. This was one of them.

"Oh, Sherlock. Have you two had another domestic?" Her voice was just the right level of sympathy to invite confidences. The detective was not immune.

He rolled over to face her, his long face drooping to re-define sulky. "John insists on going out tonight. I need him here – we have experiments for the Oxford-Circus case and I need a second pair of hands."

Ah, John had gone to visit his lady friend, then. Samantha. Sandra. Or was it Sarah? Mrs. Hudson wasn't quite certain why John insisted on having one – she seemed to be rather like a security blanket that he draped about himself, to ward off the eyes of…others. Whom, she couldn't say.

" _Mrs. Hudson, I'm not gay,"_ she fondly recalled his earnest statement that first week after moving in.

Gay, straight, bisexual, male, female, both or neither, Mrs Hudson didn't care and didn't ask. But she knew love when she saw it, and the fleeting, brilliant smiles, the hands extended to rest comfortably on shoulders, to settle absently on knees, the constant, silent communication between the isolated genius and his gentle doctor told their own story.

"He'll be back, Sherlock, I'm sure. As soon as he calms down."

She saw the detective glance towards his phone, lying discarded on the coffee table next to the sofa. She had seen him use it to call John back before, right after Lestrade called, or when he was bored, or when the other man had simply been gone for too long according to whatever internal chronometer determined when Sherlock Holmes wanted John Watson within sight.

"You have to let them go sometimes, dear," she advised sagely as the long fingers started inching towards the phone. Grey eyes pouted at her, but the hand stilled.

"But why does he have to have a date _tonight_?" Sherlock grumbled with all the petulance of a five-year-old.

"Because that's what John does, Sherlock. He goes on dates. If it's any comfort, he doesn't seem to be very serious about it – he sort of picks her up and puts her down again when he doesn't need her. Like a good winter coat." No response. "Have you told him it bothers you?"

"Bothers me?" the detective sat bolt upright. He trained that look on her – the puzzled one asking how she could possibly be so obtuse as to apply emotion to _him_. She ignored it. She was well aware of his self-diagnosis as a "high-functioning sociopath", and even more aware of his complete disdain for dealing with something as unempirical as feelings, but she had never let his indignation stop her observations. Sherlock may be the brilliant son of a brilliant line, but he was completely out of his depth as soon as the irrational was introduced to an equation.

"Yes, dear. It obviously does."

Sherlock stood stiffly. "I don't know what you're talking about, Mrs. Hudson. I will find another way to conduct my experiments this evening. John is at perfect liberty to do whatever he feels is best."

She knew a dismissal when she heard one. "I'd tell him, if I were you," she said brightly as she turned and started down the stairs. "John would do anything for you, Sherlock."

She didn't turn around to see what reaction this may have elicited. They were both so stubborn – the doctor and his detective. She hoped she wouldn't have to shove too much.

 _888_

 _John_

The front door of 221 flew open, slamming against the wall before rebounding. But the man who had thrust it open was already halfway up the stairs, his feet pounding the wood.

No need to knock at the top, the door to flat B was standing open, and, as Mrs. Hudson hurried up behind the detective inspector, she could hear the tightness in John Watson's voice.

"Disappeared?"

"We have no idea where he's gone. I'd hoped he would be here—"

"Not if there was a snowball's chance in hell of catching our man," the doctor cut him off. "When did you last see him?"

Mrs. Hudson could see the slump in Lestrade's shoulders as she entered the flat, knew that he wasn't looking forward to John's reaction. "Yesterday evening. Around eight."

"Eight? _Yesterday_ at eight? Greg!" John was glaring at the copper furiously, worrying written plainly across his honest face. "It's been _twenty-four_ _hours_. Do you have any idea how difficult it is going to be to find him now?" Mrs. Hudson could hear the faint note of panic in his voice.

Lestrade threw up his hands in frustration. "How was I to know he wasn't coming back here? He _never_ tells us what he's doing, John. That's why it's good to have _you_ there."

"Well, this time, I'm not there." He gritted his teeth, shoving the illegal firearm he would own until he died into his waistband while Lestrade pointedly looked away. "But I've got to find him. How many of your people are available?"

"As many as necessary," Lestrade said quietly. "For those who don't care about Sherlock, we need the bastard he's chasing."

The click of the bathroom latch, and Sarah emerged, startling all three of the room's occupants. Mrs. Hudson raised her eyebrows. She had no idea that John was actually bringing his lady back to the flat. No wonder Sherlock had been so foul-tempered the other day.

To her surprise, she saw a quickly-masked look of puzzled astonishment on Lestrade's face, and the faint flicker of a frown, as if he couldn't quite believe that a good-looking woman who wasn't a) John's sister or b) a suspect in a case was waltzing out of the bathroom.

The younger woman's dark eyes took in Lestrade's tense pose, Mrs. Hudson propped just inside the door and flicked over John, who still had one hand wrapped around the butt of the pistol he was hastily stowing away.

"I take it our date's off?"

Lestrade blinked. _Date?_ he mouthed to Mrs. Hudson, momentarily derailed. The landlady shrugged.

John didn't really look embarrassed. If anything, his expression was slightly harassed, sparing Sarah the briefest of apologetic glances before training all of his attention back on Lestrade.

"Sorry. Sherlock's missing. Been gone all night. _Where_ did he leave you?" This last was to the D.I.. Apparently, Sarah had gotten all the explanation she was going to get.

With a sigh, the nurse started for the coat rack, and, seeing her chance, Mrs. Hudson casually aimed to intercept.

"It's no use, you know," the older woman began, loading her voice with the kind of sympathy that easily translates to _"Men! Who needs 'em?"_ as Sarah pulled down her cardigan.

"Sorry?"

"John, dear. This is his life."

Lestrade was answering John's questions, and the blue eyes never strayed from the copper's dark ones as the doctor peppered him with queries.

"Hmm," Sarah replied non-commitally, watching John for a moment longer. "I wondered – even on our first date, Sherlock arrived and created…"

"Chaos," Mrs. Hudson said with an understanding smile. "Sherlock Holmes creates chaos wherever he goes. And John…well, it might be a bit strange but, between you and me, he seems to thrive on it."

She watched Sarah blink, processing this statement.

"Really?"

Martha could almost see the train of thought crossing Sarah's face. On first acquaintance, John came across as…too level-headed to get off on the harebrained adventures that trailed in Sherlock's wake like so many lost boys. But everyone who met the mild-seeming doctor learned eventually.

"Even after the disaster of our first date," Sarah began slowly, "when he was lying sideways in the dirt, blood streaming down his face, still tied to a chair that he had knocked over trying to save my life, John managed to crack a joke." Her half-smile crooked mouth to bittersweet over a remembrance that wasn't very funny. "He said, 'Don't worry. Next date won't be like this.'"

"And he meant it – that's the funny thing about John," the older woman said sagely. "He absolutely means it. You won't meet a kinder, more genuine man anywhere. But then Sherlock whistles—"

"—and he comes running." Sarah blew a long sigh, gaze still on a gesticulating John. "He'd never even think about _not_ running."

Mrs. Hudson held her silence, recognizing the look of study on Sarah's face. She seemed a nice girl – competent, pretty enough. But she was not for John Watson. John would never so casually overlook Sherlock's presence – the mere _existence_ of the man seemed to feed his soul on some basic level. She saw the look in Sarah's eye, the inevitable question: had John ever looked at her with the same intensity with which he now regarded Lestrade as he pelted him with questions about Sherlock? Would he ever drop his whole life on a moment's notice to go tearing off after her?

"No," Mrs. Hudson answered the unspoken queries quietly. Sarah's head jerked to her, startled. "I'm not saying you have to give up on him. I'm not telling you what to do, young lady, but you seem a good, sensible woman who deserves a normal, loving man. With John Watson, you'll always come second. Sherlock will always be first. They might not call it love – men can be awfully funny and rather dense about such things – but that's what it is. Whether you can live with that, that's up to you."

Sarah nodded again, a bit absently, shrugged into her sweater, hesitated by the door as she put on her hat, struggling with herself to see if her departure would be at all noticed by the man now buried in city maps spread hastily across the coffee table, pen in hand as he circled and scribbled, long lines slashing the display according to Lestrade's hasty story.

When John didn't look up, she caught Mrs. Hudson's eye a final time, hitched that sad half-smile onto her lips, and disappeared down stairs.

It was another five minutes before she heard John rustling papers in the business-like manner that meant they were finishing. "Got it! I think I know where to start looking. Have Sergeant Donovan meet me there. Greg, please see Sarah ho—where's Sarah?"

"Left about ten minutes back, dear," Mrs. Hudson called to him from the kitchen where the kettle was boiling, adding a judicious measure of exaggeration to nudge John in the right direction. She came back out, drying her hands on a towel. "Saw it was obvious you had no more need of her tonight and decided to go."

John grimaced faintly. "I should have said goodbye." He scrubbed his face with his right hand. "Never mind, it can't be fixed now, and I've got to find him – if only so I can kill him immediately afterwards for taking off like this. Better that she's not in the crossfire for this one, anyway."

He jammed a black winter cap over his head and leaned over to peck his landlady on the cheek. "Be back…eventually. Don't wait up."

Mrs. Hudson smiled. "Of course I'll have a hot cuppa waiting for you boys when you get back. Just this time – I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper."

Both men dashed into the night, and the grin stayed on her face. Not wait up. Indeed. She wouldn't miss the chance to see them coming in together for anything in the world.

888

As always, please review and let me know what you think!


	5. Mycroft

Disclaimer: Not mine. All respects paid to Sir Doyle, the BBC, and writers Steve Moffat and Mark Gatiss.

Mycroft

Natural.

 _Sherlock_

"Interesting fellow, your doctor."

"Yes." Sherlock agreed without looking up from his microscope. Mycroft did an unseen double-take. He had expected Sherlock to contradict his choice of words, if for no other reason than to correct him.

But his brother seemed to think the possessive was perfectly normal.

Fascinating.

888

 _John_

"How is he?"

"He's Sherlock. Honestly, Mycroft, what do you expect me to say?" John Watson's voice bled irritation, and he glared at Anthea, once more his kidnapper for their impromptu chat. "You do realize we have a flat? With tea and biscuits and all the other trappings of a civilized conversation?"

Mycroft ignored the demanding invitation. Sherlock no more wanted him at 221B than he wanted to visit. This was so much more…efficient…than the small talk that accompanied tea, anyway. Neither of them was forced into making the polite inquiries and receiving murmured replies that no one gave a damn about. "And that's all?"

"Yes! Buried up to his ears in experiments that occupy the entire kitchen table, most of the counters and almost the whole fridge. Chasing down whatever suspects Lestrade has conjured for us. Sawing on his violin at three in the morning to keep me awake with him. Inventing whole new forms of bacteria in the sink in his spare time to keep himself from getting bored." At this last, a smile hitched onto the doctor's face, and he looked almost…fond?...of the list of Sherlock's eccentricities that he'd just rattled off.

Most men would consider living under such conditions intolerable. John Watson, however, not only took it in stride but seemed to find it…fun.

Amazing.

888

"Stop."

The driver braked instantly, seemingly heedless of the busy-ness of the London street, the general chaos he was causing by halting dead at peak hour and the several cars that dove – drivers cursing avidly – out from behind them to avoid collision.

Mycroft didn't roll down his window – being obvious was never acceptable – but his nose was just shy of touching the glass, his mouth barely removed enough to keep the window from fogging and spoiling his view.

Anthea glanced up from her Blackberry briefly, glimpsed what had captured her boss's attention, and returned to texting.

Mycroft had spied his younger brother and the ever-present doctor seated outdoors at a café. Both men were relaxed in their chairs – they had just completed a case. If Mycroft hadn't already known that from keeping up with John's blog (that slice of internet insight into his brother's life was genius – more than he ever could have asked for even if Watson _had_ agreed to take the money to begin with – and he would _never_ thank the doctor for it, or let on that he read it, for fear of it vanishing), he would have known anyway from the weightless set of their shoulders, and the fact that both men were eating.

As he watched, Sherlock casually speared some morsel off John's plate. The doctor laughed an objection, to which Sherlock replied with a wave of his now-empty fork, merriment sparking in his grey eyes.

"You may continue," Mycroft murmured to his driver. They smoothly re-entered traffic, ignoring the horns of the lines of cars behind them.

There were other little things that didn't quite fit into the picture Mycroft had of his brother. The way Sherlock and John's free hands had rested on the table – close together, not touching, but comfortable in their proximity. The fact that his brother had not once glanced at his mobile.

Sherlock was _relaxed_. At ease with himself, the world, and his friend. He was…happy. And though 'happy' was plebian and simplistic, a vague emotion that the Holmes brothers had deemed the province of the less brilliant of the world, this afternoon, Sherlock wore it…naturally. John Watson seemed to _belong_ at his brother's side, in a way that no one else ever had. The detective and his doctor, set against the backdrop of hectic, noisy London.

 _Caring is not an advantage_. Years of shadowy government service had proven that, and Mycroft had carefully kept himself detached from everyone who entered his sphere. His agents and assistants were competent people – but they had their own lives, and Mycroft had made it very clear that he was not the type of boss you take out for a drink.

He had tried to impress the same lesson on Sherlock. And until John Watson had entered his world, his brother had been doing beautifully.

But that smile, the complete lack of tension in his shoulders, the spark in the storm-grey eyes…Mycroft had accepted long ago that Sherlock's brain refused him such easy feelings without cigarettes or cocaine. It was one of the primary reasons for his constant worry.

And as they rounded the corner and sped off towards the appointment he'd delayed for his momentary detour, Mycroft felt a minute touch of concern disappear from the weight on his heart.

For his own reasons – " _When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield. Welcome back." "Could it be that you have decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of all people?" –_ John Watson was staying. If he could sit and laugh with Sherlock like that right after a case, when his brother had doubtless been at his rudest, most arrogant and most condescending, there was little worry of him vanishing.

Which meant Sherlock had someone highly reliable watching his back, and, for the first time in life since he had escaped their parents' house, was allowing himself to be taken care of.

A fleeting smile curved Mycroft's mouth. He might actually allow himself to _like_ Dr. Watson.

How unexpected.

888

A/N: A big thank you to my reviewers – I truly appreciate all the feedback and encouragement!


	6. Moriarty

Disclaimer: Not mine. All respects paid to Sir Doyle, the BBC, and writers Steve Moffat and Mark Gatiss.

A/N: Thank you to everyone who has been reading, and welcome to the final installment of 'Second Glances.' I have rearranged canon slightly in this chapter - I know that the "Bored!" scene takes place prior to the 'gas explosion' in the show, but here it suited my purposes better for it to happen after. I hope you enjoy this last chapter.

Moriarty

"You want me to handle the situation?" Moran rumbled from behind him. Moriarty turned to see his henchman sitting at a small side table, gun-oil-soaked rag in hand, his weapon in pieces as he methodically cleaned and polished each piece.

He could feel Moran's need to _do_ something. He knew the other man faintly disapproved of his obsession with Sherlock – not that the former military man would ever be stupid enough to express such out loud. Moriarty compensated him well – as he did with all his other competent lackeys – but survival around the mercurial Irishman required an understanding that as the brains of this and every other operation, his opinion was the only one that counted.

Moran was, in fact, the only one allowed to re-visit a previously closed subject without instantly subjecting himself to the smaller man's wrath.

Moriarty was in no mood to be angry now, even if it was the third time Moran had asked this question in the past several months. He frowned at the frozen CCTV image, one of Watson and Sherlock ducking into a cab together, good humor evident on both faces. He tapped his upper lip with one finger, and shook his head.

"No."

An idea was percolating at the back of his brain. A hated idea, to be sure, but likely a true one. The thought that he was going about this all wrong.

James Moriarty _hated_ to be wrong. He practically never was. Human beings were like lazy summer rivers – slow, inexorable, taken in at a glance. Most of them were so boring that he never bothered to dive beneath the surface – all he would encounter there was muddy algae and the occasional, gaping fish. Some were mildly more interesting and merited a quick dip. All could be forced to change course.

Except Sherlock Holmes. And Sherlock was the only man Moriarty had ever encountered whom he regarded as an equal. Alike in their fascinations with the art of crime and criminality. Alike in their superior comprehension that others existed to serve as their backdrop, as occasional pieces in an ongoing game.

Except where John Watson was concerned. If Moriarty wanted the consulting detective all to himself, first he had to get rid of this inexplicable friend. Death was the obvious route – but so far, that hadn't been working. Watson inconveniently refused to die. And, if the last case was anything to go by, thrusting danger in Watson's direction was, in fact, having the opposite effect. The greater the danger, the harder Sherlock wove himself around the doctor. Moriarty prided himself on his learning curve. He would not be making the same mistake again.

Almost blindly, the consulting criminal re-wound the CCTV tapes for several of the screens, pausing them at the relevant points automatically, their contents long since committed to memory. Watson opening a door for an elderly lady. Handing a kid back the wallet he'd unknowingly dropped. Smiling his inane, gentle smile at a patient in his clinic (it hadn't proven too difficult to get _that_ camera placed – a man in coveralls with a screwdriver and a paint can could get _anywhere_ in this town).

The dull footage of Sherlock's boring flat mate revealed a significant character flaw. Watson _cared_ about people. Not a few people. Not just his family and a handful of friends who entered his sphere. He cared about everyone. The most ragged, filthiest pickpocket on the street was as worthy of his notice as men like Mycroft Holmes.

Moriarty knew it was a stupid, unforgivable weakness. Especially in a doctor. And a military doctor at that. Sherlock just didn't get it, this need to see to the well-being of others. Which frustrated Watson.

Maybe…that was the angle to exploit.

Perhaps the real trick was to get _Watson_ to leave. Voluntarily. To completely expose that part of the detective's psyche that Moriarty knew was there – the love of the game, the desire to win at all costs, the total irrelevance of human life except as a matter of keeping score. Watson wouldn't be able to abide that. As long as the two men skirted the issue, he could safely ignore it, but if it were thrown into relief, the fundamental core of the guileless doctor simply wouldn't be able to set it aside. Or forgive Sherlock for his lack of 'feelings'.

What Watson couldn't know – didn't _deserve_ to know – was that it was his _feelings_ that made him so unsuited to sharing Sherlock's life.

But for this to work, Moriarty needed to be able to observe them. At home in their natural environment. He had to be able to gauge the right amount of pressure _exactly_ to push Watson over the edge.

"Arrange an accident," he casually ordered Moran. "Near 221B. Something big enough to require workmen for repairs in the flat. Nothing fatal for our two boys, though."

The dull _clunk_ of a gun piece settling on the table. Moriarty could almost feel an air of satisfaction shimmer around Moran, now that he would be allowed to act. "Done."

888

Moran really had outdone himself, Moriarty thought delightedly. A gas explosion. How delicious. Now reporters were busy yammering into their cameras about flawed public safety, police tape liberally littered the asphalt, and the first of the ground crews were coming in to clean up.

Coveralls, a workman's hat pulled low over his face, a few days of stubble left to grow on his face, and a shuffling gait to match his fellows served as an admirable disguise. Sherlock hadn't met him yet, but when he finally revealed himself, Moriarty didn't want himself to be recognizable to the consulting detective as the man who'd fixed his flat.

He slipped inside with the crew, up the undamaged stairs to 221B.

The east-facing windows had been blown out, along with a good portion of that wall. Glass cracked under his boots. Nevertheless, the rest of the flat and all of the furniture was still intact. Moriarty paused for a moment in the door, allowing himself to drink in the sight of Sherlock Holmes' life, shutting out the irritating workmen who were already grunting as they moved debris and and muttered about window casings and cutting panes and repairing plaster.

A carpet of paper covered the floor. Much of it had been scattered by the blast, but the under-layer seemed to have been there for some time. He could see hints of diagrams, half-translated sentences of Sanskrit, various tatters that once belonged to a complete map of London. Moriarty's eyes were drawn to the mirror – undisturbed by the detonation– and the coat of evidence and notes tacked hastily to it, circles and lines of red ink linking news articles, photographs and hand-scribbled thoughts. He could almost see the detective standing there, quicksilver eyes flashing in sync with his thoughts—

"Hey! You gonna block the door all day, or get to work?" one of his 'colleagues' demanded. Moriarty delivered a quick, bland smile, committing the man's face to memory. Moran would enjoy the chance to be let off his leash and take care of him later. He shuffled forward, pulling a tape measure out of his pocket.

Where to put it? Big Brother had the place under his own surveillance, though that would be down with the explosion. Where could a single camera go where it would capture the whole room, and Sherlock was unlikely to see it? And Holmes the Elder would not pick it up on his own devices?

Ruthlessly incisive dark eyes swept the chaos. He needed some place high. Some place innocuous…

A medical tome invited his gaze at the very top of the tall bookcase nearest a now-shattered window. _Grey's Anatomy_. Moriarty's eyes crinkled. _Gotcha_. The whole shelf was a booby-trap of glass splinters and shards of cracked wood. It would take time to clean up – certainly enough to justify carefully placing his device.

Tape measure casually on display to ward off the curious, Moriarty purposefully moved towards the bookcase.

888

Gunfire.

Moriarty hastily tore into the monitoring suite, belting his dressing gown automatically, eyes glued to the screen that monitored the inside of 221B Baker Street. A man like Sherlock had plenty of enemies, but no…not this way, he couldn't go like this…not at the hands of someone else, someone plebian, Sherlock belonged to _him…_

 _"What the_ hell _are you doing?"_ John Watson's irritating voice echoed over the speaker just as Moriarty seated himself, drawing a deep breath.

The doctor's army-issue Browning dangled from one long-fingered hand as Sherlock turned impatient eyes on his flat mate. He muttered something so quietly that the microphone didn't capture it.

But apparently, neither did the doctor. _"What?"_

 _"Bored!"_ Sherlock surged to his feet, and Watson ducked back towards the stairwell, covering his ears as Sherlock loosed another bullet at—

—was that a _smiley face_ on the wall? Moriarty's own lips stretched in a rare, genuine grin of his own as he took note of what his obsession/ adversary was firing at. A crude face done in bright yellow paint against the hideous wallpaper pattern.

 _"Bored!"_ Another shot, and Watson rushed up to him, reaching for the weapon. Either the magazine was empty or Sherlock wasn't willing to risk shooting the doctor, for he surrendered it without protest to Watson's glower.

 _"For Christ's sake, Sherlock, this place just got fixed up! I know we haven't had a case recently, but why the wall?"_

 _"The wall had it coming. I don't know what's gotten into the criminal classes. It's lucky I'm not one of them."_ Sherlock slouched over to the much-abused couch, where he swept his dressing gown dramatically about himself and full-body-flopped down.

Moriarty's smile turned feral. _Bored, Mr. Holmes? We can't have that. Such a shame to see that magnificent mind going to waste._

" _Severed head_?" Watson's incredulous question came from the kitchen, to be answered with _"Just tea for me, thanks,"_ but Moriarty was already rising, his mind rapidly presenting and dismissing alternatives.

A game, then. He had to agree with Sherlock – London had been all-too-quiet of late. His contacts were carrying out their business with unusual efficiency, leaving neither scraps of evidence to alert the police nor disappearing important enough people to make the government take notice.

But Morarity was _the_ inside man. And there were so many petty crimes, small jobs, that he could simply cut loose…

And the game would fully engage Sherlock, show the doctor who this brilliant man _really_ was, prove to John Watson, MD, that he was completely out of his depths. That he didn't _want_ to have anything to do with Sherlock.

Moriarty smirked. He opened his closet, stepped on the stool and reached for a thickly-dusted shoebox on the very top shelf.

Inside were a pair of trainers, unremarkable in every sense aside from their age – nearly thirty years now – and the traces of a poison on their uninvestigated laces.

His history with Sherlock Holmes went back farther than anyone – even the detective – knew. If he'd known then that the persistent boy pestering the Yard to distraction would grow up to be this kind of a man…he might have started the game long ago.

Never mind. They'd found each other again now. He carefully replaced the lid on the box and reached for his mobile, Moran's number coming easily from his fingertips.

There were a number of arrangements to be made before he officially invited Sherlock into the field.

888

A/N: A big thank you to my reviewers – I truly appreciate your feedback and encouragement. The follow-up to 'Second Glances' is 'Realizations', if you are interested in pursuing the third piece of this tale. Thank you for taking the time to read!


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